Moe Sorrentino, 62, retired commercial abalone diver, now runs a one-room bait and tackle shop outside Newport, Oregon, hasn’t voluntarily attended a town event in eight years. His ex-wife left him for a Scottsdale golf pro back in 2015, and he’s held a petty, burning grudge against all state wildlife rangers since 2019, when a rookie ticketed him for one abalone over the personal limit, even though he’d grabbed the extra while helping a panicking tourist free their snagged net. He only showed up to the fire department chili cookoff because his best friend, a volunteer fireman, threatened to hide all his custom diving reels if he bailed.
The asphalt of the fire station parking lot still holds the day’s October warmth, the air thick with cumin, hickory smoke from the grill, and the sharp, hoppy tang of IPA from the kegerator the crew hauled out. Moe leans against the cooler, his left hand curled around a cold can, the stub of his missing index finger (sliced clean off by a snapping net line in 2007) pressing into the aluminum. He’s half ignoring a fireman rambling about a recent cliff rescue when he fumbles his plastic chili spoon, it clattering to the blacktop under his boots.
He bends to grab it at the exact same time as a woman in a tan forest ranger uniform, their foreheads bumping with a soft, dull thud. Moe huffs, ready to snap a snarky line about people watching where they’re going, but she laughs first, a low, throaty sound that makes the hair on the back of his neck stand up. “My bad,” she says, holding out the spoon, and she smells like pine resin and coconut sunscreen, like she just stepped off a trail ten minutes prior. Her forearm brushes his when she passes it over, and he spots the thin, silvery scar wrapping around her right wrist, the kind you get from a chainsaw kickback. “You’re Moe, right? I tried your habanero white bean chili an hour ago. Burned my tongue so bad I could barely taste my first beer.”
He blinks, surprised anyone outside his regular tackle shop customers even knows his name. He’s about to make a rude joke about rangers not being able to handle heat, but she grins, the corner of her mouth tugging up higher on one side, and the comment dies in his throat. She’s Lila Marquez, 58, the new coastal ranger, moved up from Big Sur three months prior, got the chainsaw scar her first week on the job clearing a fallen Douglas fir off Highway 101. He finds himself talking more than he has in months, telling her about the poacher who tried to hide 12 illegal abalone in his wetsuit, tripped on the beach, and spilled the whole haul at the feet of three waiting rangers.
She leans in when he talks, close enough her shoulder brushes his every time she laughs, her hazel eyes crinkling at the corners, and he can’t stop staring at the smattering of freckles across her nose, leftover from the summer’s unseasonably warm sun. He keeps telling himself he hates rangers, that this is a stupid waste of time, that he’s better off holed up alone in his shop or his cottage by the shore, but every time her hand brushes his when she reaches for a napkin or a peanut from the bowl on the cooler, the little spark of electricity makes that thought feel ridiculous.
The fire siren blares suddenly to cut through the crowd noise for the prize announcements, and the group surges forward, shoving Lila back into Moe’s chest. His arm wraps around her waist automatically to steady her, his calloused hand splayed across the soft fabric of her uniform shirt, and she doesn’t step away. She turns her head so their faces are inches apart, her breath warm against his cheek, smelling like root beer and mint gum. “I’ve been meaning to ask you,” she says, quiet enough no one else can hear, “I’ve been wanting to explore the deeper tide pools out by Yaquina Head Lighthouse, but I don’t know the rip currents out there. Would you be willing to show me sometime? I’ll bring the good dark roast you sell at your shop, the stuff you keep hidden behind the counter for regulars.”
He hesitates for half a second, the old memory of that 2019 ticket flitting through his head, and then he smiles, the first real, unforced smile he’s had at a social event in years. “Yeah,” he says. “Next Saturday. Low tide’s at 6am. Don’t be late, or I’ll leave without you.”
The announcer calls Moe’s name for first place in the chili contest a second later, and the crowd cheers, but he barely registers it. He fumbles in his jacket pocket for a crumpled receipt from his tackle shop, scribbles his cell number on the back with the ballpoint he keeps tucked behind his ear, presses it into her palm. His thumb brushes the scar on her wrist as he pulls his hand away, and she shivers a little, tucking the receipt into the front pocket of her flannel overshirt.
They stand there talking for another 45 minutes, until the sun dips below the Pacific and the air turns sharp with coastal chill. She waves when she climbs into her forest service truck, and he waves back, the $50 prize check crumpled in the pocket of his jeans, the sound of her laugh still ringing in his ears. He climbs into his beat-up 2008 Ford F150 ten minutes later, turns the key in the ignition, and glances down at his dash to see a text from an unknown number pop up, bright against the screen: 6am Saturday. I’ll bring extra creamer, just in case you still take yours sweet.
